Category Archives: Poetry

From the Imperial Palace: a haiku

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Tokyo is a modern city, with the ancient Imperial Palace closed up inside of it. It’s an interesting collision of the old and new. The modern Tokyo that we saw yesterday on our train and foot travels was nothing too special — just another boxy skyscraper city center. But the fortress-like walls of the Imperial City, where the Emperor and his family live, is impressive — moats, walls, stately buildings on the rocky outcropping of the hills. We had hoped to get inside and see the gardens, but all access was closed off and so we had to use our imagination for what it might be like to be so cloistered.

Here is my Tokyo-Imperial Palace haiku:

Modern city, guard;
protecting the past from this:
concrete invasion

Peace (outside the walls),
Kevin

 

Japanese Shrine: A haiku reflection

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Yesterday, we wandered many streets of the surrounding Japanese cities — getting a glimpse of the Japanese culture far from the well-traveled roads. It’s hard to avoid the observation that this island is cramped, with narrow streets, narrow sidewalks and bustling activity everywhere.

We also visited two important cultural places — a giant Buddha (we even went inside the belly of the Buddha, which should be the name of a rock band, as Dave Barry used to say in his columns) and a beautiful temple shrine complex. Both sites are hundreds of years old. The temple, in particular, was astounding, using the landscape to capture the essence of spirituality.

I wrote this haiku to capture my thoughts of the shrine:

A water whisper:
Music amid the temples;
we walk silent paths

The site is known as Tsurogaoka Hachimangue Shrine and it is in Kamakura.

Peace (in 5-7-5),
Kevin

 

My Haiku Project from Japan

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We arrived .. sanity intact.

I am keeping a journal of our visit here in Japan (of course) and my goal is to write at least one haiku each day while we are here. A short poem to capture the experience. I’ll get on here and blog the haikus when I can and when I have time.

This poem is about losing an entire day as we skipped across time zones.

Hurdling time zones
like jumping picket fences
Everything stands still

Peace (from the land of the rising sun),
Kevin

 

The Red Sled

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This photo is from my backyard and it reminded me of the imagery from the William Carlos Williams’ poem, Red Wheelbarrow. (The photo is part of the Photofridays project, too)

Remember?

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

What about:

so much depends
upon

the red plastic
sled

covered with white
snow

beside the children’s
tracks.

Peace (in a poetic mood),
Kevin

Cell Phone Novelist

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This week, I was skimming through my New Yorker magazine and came across an intriguing article about the rise of cell phone novelists in Japan. Mostly composed by young women who are writing for publication for the first time in their lives, this phenomenon has not yet crossed the world but is gaining some traction outside of Japan. The novels are written line by line on cell phones, in episodes, then put up on websites, and then some (the irony here) are published into best-selling books.

The article by Dana Goodyear (read an excerpt of it here) gets at both the views of the writers but also the criticism the cell phone novels are getting from literary circles. People argue against calling these pieces “novels” and scoff at their importance, while others see the popularity as a signal that literacy, even in the wired world, is not quite yet dead, even if the depth of the stories remains fairly simplistic. Perhaps this is just the start of something bigger?

Anyway, the article got me thinking and inspired this poem, about a cell phone novelist who feels under the cultural gun for publishing stories in this new-fangled way.

The Plight of the Pajama Novelist
(listen to the podcast of the poem)

I stand accused of being nothing more than
a pajama novelist
padding about in bare feet
with fingers twitching on my cell phone
as I unleash yet another sentence, word by word by word,
into this text-ural world.

My accusers use their diplomas for prosecution
as if a piece of paper
might yield some artifact from the past
to determine the present state of affairs
when words are so cheap that anyone is a poet;
anyone, a novelist;
anyone, a composer.

Locked into the ribbon of their old punch-key typewriters,
they don’t imagine that writing can ever be different than it was,
that it might change with the pulse of the times
and become stories scribbled out on the thumbpads
during the afternoon commute back home.

Odysseus remains lost in the mire
but Genji is alive and well,
immersed in the politics of the palace
of internal intrigue which we — the denizens of Keitai Shosetsu —
pick and choose from of the remains of the skeletons
of the past.

Yet who am I to defend myself as I sit in anonymity,
disguised as a woman of heartache
whose lover is in chains;
whose past remains broken;
whose heart is in flames;
with passions, spoken: all for public consumption
as I sip my beer and imagine the possibilities.

A million hits can’t be wrong — a million eyes on the screen —
as they wait with eagerness
while my accusers stew in their discordant certitude
that this signal the End of the Novel.
So yes, I plead guilty to charges
and wait for the jury of my peers — one million strong —
to come to my defense so we can write this new tale of ours:
together.

Peace (in new forms),
Kevin

Ants: An Angry Poem

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Darn those pesky little ants. They’ve found our home. My only response was to write a poem about them.

Ants — A Tirade
(listen to the poem)

The ants invade
these days
in waves
and my brain is just crazed
with ways to contain them —
stop them
although, I’m afraid,
that that can of Raid is no longer part of
our chemical brigade
and while finger-crunching-kids may play
the role of the Giant,
it remains a fact that more and more ants
are coming in out of the shade
to stay
and our only hope
is to sweep the crumbs from the counter tops
away.
Be gone, ants,
or
I’ll make you pay with another of my
terrible, awful, insubstantial
tirades.

Peace (in little things),
Kevin

Slice of Life, Weekly Challenge, Chapter 10

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(This is part of a weekly feature called Slice of Life Project)

Yesterday, we all sat around and wrote. It was another freewriting opportunity for the kids and for me, too. I didn’t give them any directions, really, just space to write. We didn’t share. We didn’t talk. We wrote and then when it was time to leave, we put our notebooks away and that was that. While they were making comics or writing stories or reflecting on their past weekend, I was hit by an urge to write some poetry, and my mind was wandering around the idea of the End of the School Year.

So, these are three of the four poems I wrote during the freewriting times of my four writing classes yesterday. The fourth poem didn’t make the cut, but there still might be some fragments to pull from the fire on some other day. Words are never lost, they just await their time.

Let You Go
(listen to the poem)

I’d count the days
if I had the time
But time is elusive here
as the days slip past.

I am torn
between who you were,
who you are
and who you are becoming,
and wonder where
my place in your story will be
when the years have washed ashore.

You are more than
what my pen can hold
and beyond a form
to take shape on this paper
beneath fingers.

I watch you — I whisper
farewell
and let you go.


Stage Presence
(listen to the poem)

On stage
you were transformed
into something unrecognizable
even to me —
the silent one no longer silent
but with a voice
like a wolf
pouncing on those words
like prey.

I was there, with you, on stage,
in the moment
behind the curtain
I believed you in a way
I (perhaps) had not believed in you before

I wonder where that person lives
in you —
when I call on you,
I am only met with confusion.

Thunderstorm
(listen to the poem)

Another summer awaits you;
your parents are content to let you sit
and simmer in the heat —
and you, thinking your thoughts of no way out;
I know you need structure
an excuse to write,
to learn;
to move among us in the living
from your world behind the mask.

In the days ahead,
I will mail you a book — some pens and paper —
anonymous, as always —
and cross my fingers that it reaches you
in time ….

before the doldrums move you
into the path of the thunderstorms
of summer.

Peace (in the waning days of the school year),

Kevin

Six Words Can Say a Lot: Days in a Sentence

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This week’s Day in a Sentence was narrowed down to Day in Six Words, and the words came from all over the blogosphere this week. There were many new voices (partly as a result of the 31 Day Comment Challenge), plenty of veteran writers, and an incredible collection of tales told in minimalistic creativity.

I am going to keep my own narrative intrusions in check this week and allow your voices to come through on their own (because, well, they don’t need any help from me). But I did do something a bit different with your comments/words this week as yet another way to bring us all together in once “voice” and you can find that experiment at the end of the post.

With further ado, here you go:

  • Seniors graduated Friday. A bittersweet celebration. — Cynthia
  • Field trip – 8 chaperones – hell yeah! — Sara P.
  • Learned lots from Will Richardson seminar — Anne M.
  • Not getting out produces distorted viewpoints. — Christine
  • Wet weepy spongy soggy rainbow day — Mary
  • With friends and sunshine, then rain. — Illya (who has been experimenting with six day memoirs on Twitter for the past few days, and I have been trying to keep up, too)
  • Did that Simon says no comment. — Ken (who originally let me know: Oil C wot oil do.)
  • Sydney Wednesday. Melbourne Saturday. Perth Tuesday. — Kathryn
  • Two-on-two, full-court — DUMB! — Larry (who admits that the full court game was a bit too much for him)
  • A whirlwind of activities encompasses me! — Amy
  • “Wolf-children on crack” describes my class. — Liza
  • Need to learn to let go. — Dani
  • Festival’s coming. Kids crazy. Teachers crazier. — Karen M.
  • Mud-covered frog hunters are wildly happy. — Connie
  • Kind of mellow week. Almost summer! — Andrea
  • Sent staff survey. Received zero responses. — Andrea (she was inspired to keep going)
  • One soul who wears many hats. — Eric
  • The Quilt binding encircles us all. — Jane S.
  • It’s that time…awards, honors, accolades. — Delaine
  • Telling students they’ve failed is excruciating. — Nina
  • Graduation ends K12; creates new beginnings! — Tonya
  • Last Wednesday class today!! Time for ….!?!?!!!! — Illya
  • Wondering if any “boilers” could hear me all the way from California hooting and hollering Wednesday night as many of the teachers and students in my filmmaking project headed onto to the stage at our regional SEVAs to receive awards and recognition?!? — Gail (more than six words but Gail also has leeway on my blog)
  • Mulling on the importance of simplicity. — Kate
  • Digitalstory dreams as new mac arrives — Bonnie

And listen to Bonnie (if it works):

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Meanwhile, at a Technology Across the Curriculum Conference on Saturday, I had participants in a podcasting workshop record their own Days in a Sentence. I did not limit them to six words, but you can listen to their voices (and I added a second sentence for this week, too).

Peace (in words, short words)

Kevin

PS — So, friends, I took your six words, mashed them all together, and created this found poem of your thoughts. It was an interesting endeavor and I believe all of you are represented in some fashion or another. What does the poem mean? The poet remains silent. 🙂

Six Words As Collective Thought
A Day in Sentence Found Poem

In bittersweet simplicity:
the quilt of students we once received
now graduate
but just one soul creates celebration/importance;
Just one soul produces sunshine;
to dream a whirlwind of mud-covered
friends who encompass a “response” in these Days
and arrive wildly happy with honor,
then (in digitalstory festivals) I project rainbows of wolf-children wearing hats, two by two —
hooting and hollering like the spongy virtual frogs of Will Richardson
as these viewpoints arrive through the recognition that
learning always honors teachers (even with crazy kids encircled in whirlwinds).
I’m mulling this:
Does this stage of summer create new beginnings?
Or end the time of today?
Let go. Let go.
Hell yeah!

poemtextmessage: a poem in SMS

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This morning, I had an inspiration to write a poem using the shortened SMS language of the cell phone and chat room (and twitter, too, I suppose).

So, here goes:

poemtextmessage
(listen to the poem, translated)

iirc
u thnk txt &wrds r doa
but omg rotfl bout that @shmh
‘cos ov cors, imo, 2moro will ch8g 4 us &4u
QFT: ppl r str8ng & lng str8ngr
th4, i activ8 ur txt 4u
w/lnks & soh fwiw &hope u
h/o 2 w/e u can
& now pls gt bc 2 yr hw
yer PAW

Pce \\//
Kvn